Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“Good morning.” Adin smiled at him, then handed the clipboard to the guard.

The guard looked at it. At first he seemed a little puzzled, then he saw the day pass clipped to the top sheet. The embassy had obtained it through Israeli military connections with the U.S. Air Force. It was the magic key. “This is a little unusual, isn’t it? Don’t you guys usually fly this stuff commercial?” said the guard.

“Usually,” said Adin. “But we had a military tanker coming in for refueling, so I guess they figured may as well use it.”

The guard stuck his head in the window and counted with his finger until he got to twelve. “Looks like it’s OK.” He tried to peek over the boxes. “Just the twelve boxes, right?”

“That’s it.”

The guard signed off, tore the top sheet off, and handed the clipboard back to Adin. “Have a nice day.”

Adin smiled. “Thanks,” he said and drove through the gate. To his passengers in back, he said, “Stay down. We have one more stop to make before we get to the plane.” He took the curving road around to the right, passed the huge B-52 on display, and a half mile up he turned left on Laurel. He followed it to the large commissary where it ended in a T intersection in front of the building. He turned right and threaded his way through the short blocks to Holly Street. There ahead of him was a single chain-link gate, the last barrier between the van and the concrete apron leading to the runway.

He stopped at the gate, and a guard came out. He checked the paperwork, didn’t bother to look at the boxes, and opened the gate.

As he drove through the gate Adin saw an entire wing of fighter jets, F-18s, parked in a separate area off to the right. He assumed that this was part of the Air National Guard unit stationed at the base.

Two A-10 Warthogs were parked closer in on the apron. Just beyond them, farther out toward the runway, was a KC-130 with four large squared-off propellers in desert camo colors. It bore the Israeli Air Force marking on the side, a simple white circle surrounding the blue Star of David. Adin sighed a deep breath when he saw it. Almost home.

One of the flight crew was standing outside near the open ramp under the tail section talking with a U.S. Air Force officer. The Israeli pointed toward the approaching van, and the American turned and looked.

By the time Adin reached them, he already had the window down and the clipboard out. He pulled up next to the two men, handed the clipboard to the American, smiled, and said, “Do you want to count them?”

The guy just glanced through the window, looked at the boxes, checked the paperwork, and said, “I’ll take your word for it.” He tore off one more of the forms for his records and asked the Israeli crewman if they needed a hand loading.

“We can handle it,” said the Israeli. “You could do us a favor, though. The driver is a military attache from the embassy. He’s going to be flying out with us. Could you park the van and hold it? They’ll be sending somebody down to pick it up later today.”

“No problem,” said the American.

“Go ahead on back. I’ll drive over to the hangar and give you the keys when we’re done,” said Adin.

“I can wait,” said the guy.

“I’m afraid it’s gonna take a while. There’s some things I have to discuss with the crew before we load up and take off,” said Adin.

The Israeli crewman looked surprised. But he didn’t say anything.

“Well, if it’s gonna take a long time, I’ll head back,” said the American.

“Catch up with you at the hangar.” Adin smiled.

As soon at the guy walked away, Adin looked at the other Israeli and under his breath said, “I’ve got some passengers.”

“So have we,” said the Israeli.

They spoke for a second, and Adin pulled the van around, backed up to the foot of the ramp, and told his passengers in the back to hang on. He hit the gas and backed up the ramp until the rear of the van edged into the open belly of the plane. He stopped, put the van in park, and jumped out.

By then the other Israeli was already at the back of the van. Adin unlocked the two back doors and they swung open. Except for a few feet exposed under the two open doors at the side, Sarah, Herman, and the dog were completely shielded from view by anyone outside the plane.

Adin pulled the tarp off them and Bugsy jumped. His eyes immediately fixed on the other Israeli. Adin grabbed him as he lunged, snagged his collar. “Easy! Easy! Heel!” He struggled to calm the dog and hold him in the van. He grabbed him by the muzzle to keep him from barking as Adin peeked through the crack at the hinge of the rear van door.

The American airman had turned around to see what the commotion was. He stopped for a second and looked. When he didn’t see anything, he turned again and headed once more toward the hangar.

Adin watched him go. “Now!” he told Sarah. “Move.”

Quickly she stepped down from the van and up into the plane. Herman followed her. Adin took the dog by the leash. Once inside he gave Bugsy to Sarah. “Hang on to him and don’t let him bark.”

“How do I stop him?”

“Just like this.” Adin took Bugsy’s muzzle with his hand and held it firmly but gently.

“He’ll let me do that?”

“Yeah, if you show him who’s boss,” said Adin. He smiled at her.

She took the dog up the ramp and was immediately confronted with what was in front of her.

It wasn’t until then that Adin noticed the configuration inside the plane. The twin fuel tanks weren’t there. He turned to the other Israeli. “Where are the tanks?”

“It’s all right. We have a single tank up front, centered under the wings. We’ll have enough range. Besides, you’re going to need what’s in those other containers.” There were two large metal boxes balancing the load, one of them the size of a double shipping container but not quite as high. It had a drop-down door facing the open ramp.

Back at the airport in Playa del Carmen, I question the pilot as to exactly what he saw during his single flyover of the facility.

It has been several months, and he can’t recall all the details with precision. From what he remembered seeing, the area was fenced off and there appeared to be some fixed guns, though he can’t recall their precise location. He was scared, trying to maneuver the small ultralight to dodge the bullets.

What he remembers most was the large satellite dish. “I almost flew into it,” he tells me. “It was very big. Bigger than this building.” He is talking about the hangar in which we are standing.

“Excuse me?”

“No, I swear it,” he says.

Harry is looking at him as if it’s a fish story.

“It saved my life.”

“Why do you say that?” says Harry.

“Because when I flew toward it, they stopped firing. I realized they didn’t want to hit it. So I kept going. But sooner or later I had to go around it or over it. That’s when I realized how big it was. It sat on top of its own building,” he says.

“That would have to be a commercial broadcasting dish,” says Harry. “What would they be doing with that?”

“I don’t know.”

We decide to stay the night at a motel on the coast in Playa del Carmen. We now know how far the distance is to the location of the facility. As the crow flies not far, by car perhaps an hour.

“So what do we do?” says Harry. “Let’s assume your man is right, that what he says is up that road is there. I’d say we’re at an end.” Over dinner at a small restaurant overlooking the beach we talk.

“I think we need to know for sure,” I tell him.

“When are you going to know for sure, when they shoot you?” says Harry.